Note
by rivernymph99
Summary: ONE SHOT. Mild swearing. Felt like writing this, so here it it :)


Tom,

I suppose you'll want an explanation; I would. You deserve one after all. And then, even if you don't _want_ one, I've loved you long enough to know you'll need one. You will. You've always been one to try filling the gaps…

I do love you. Please don't think I didn't love you, because I do Tom. So much. Too much.

It's weird writing to you like this. I don't really know what it's going to be like; I can assure you now, this won't be filled with tearful goodbyes and a reasonable apology. This could go well, or it could send you into spiralling despair. Who knows? I guess we'll see. Oh right. Correction; you'll see.

To be honest, it's not really something I want to right, I mean, who would? People do though, otherwise (not going to line) I probably would've never thought to tell you. I just want it end. Everything to just stop; for the world to relax. Exhale.

Usually they're not addressed to any person in particular; I remember one soldier's, way back when. His was beautiful, gorgeous, totally comforting. Again, I can't help it; this won't be any of those things. Comforting maybe, if anything. And you'll have to be really philological to see even that. Can you be? For me? One last time…

So I'm sorry Tom, but this'll have to do. Be 'it'.

My note.

When I was little, my grandad gave me this boring old, royal blue, tin fountain pen. He was the oldest man I'd ever known, and the only thing I could think to say as thanks, was to ask why he'd got me _this_. My mum kicked me at the dinner table. To her, all I was, was a boisterous and fidgeting seven-year-old girl, whom should've never spoken to her 'grandfather' like that. But luckily for me, he'd taken it that I was blown away by this golden spectacle, proceeding to tell me how the forces had given the pen to him as a sort of prize for joining. (Bless him; it was all he seemed to care about.) I listened Tom, and _you_ know too well I don't do that often. It was captivating; being part of something so new and exciting shut me up for to first time ever. Adventure and all that crap.

The reason I start with that, that stupid piece of information you probably don't want_ or_ need right now, is that is my earliest memory. I spent a good few hours in to car trying to go back further, but that one just stuck to the walls of my mind, a shunning reminder to me of hellish guilt.

I can't do it anymore. It's too hard.

The guilt Tom, it swallows you whole. I think that time you went though it with that kid, (you know, the baby years ago,) the reason I got so pissed off with you, was that in my world, that was nothing at all resembling a guilty conscience. That's what I live with. Not a sane one.

A mind riddled with the endless twine of guilt doesn't let you sleep at night; the amount of times I've cried into darkness is up there with sarcastic comments.

It doesn't let you eat a meal without counting how many they've missed. God, it must be hundreds and hundreds now…

Guilt doesn't let you hold your new-born son's hand; feel his touch and gentle breathing. Not without thinking of the pulse you look away. With every tear he sheds tom, all I can see are so many millions more pouring from some poor afghan kid's swollen eyes. It makes me sick. Looking at my own son makes me feel sick. I'm nasty; so, so horrifically cruel.

It won't let you enjoy living. Not when they're dead. And that can't be fixed. It's shit. I hate it. I want it to go away; I want it to end. It needs to end soon. Please, it has to end. It's not fair on you. On Ben.

I need you to understand me now. My poison brain is a bubble of pressure waiting to burst; all the voices in there know it's so fragile, one whisper will cause it to burst, but they still insist on poking and prodding. Am I a joke, Tom? I really thought I could kid myself into forgetting. I was so, so wrong. You can't forget the warm smell of blood when you work with it. Even then…

I was really convincing for a moment though, wasn't I? Some days, my mind seemed to relax. But that pocket of air has to burst at some point, doesn't it? I couldn't go on like that forever. I'd pull you down with my sinking ship.

And I owe you this. I really do. You tried so hard help me move on. Honestly, it's no one's fault. _IT ISN'T YOUR FAULT_.

Can you tell Ben for me? I don't think I could wright him a note. The pen wouldn't work. Even if it was saved for your glorious years to come, (because Tom, without me holding you down, they will be the best) who would I be writing to? I wouldn't _know _him; just someone who briefly I held in my bony arms, I suppose. I hope he gives you comfort; just tell I'm sorry. I couldn't love him like I should've. I hate that. I hate that so much. Maybe let him read this? Maybe he'll grow up like you and get it.

I love you Tom. There. Plain and simple. You don't need more; it means the same thing. I love you.

I'm doing this because I have to. For you and for him. It's not fair for me to hold you back. You need to fly Tom; you need me to set you free, I weigh you down. Please; trust me for once.

Forever any always,

Sam.


End file.
